Hollow Man
by RainbowBetty
Summary: He's locked inside his own mind with no knowledge of who he is or how he came to be admitted to an inpatient facility under the name of John Bonham. What he does remember is a pair of familiar hazel eyes... and the nagging sense that something is very, very wrong.
1. Chapter 1

"Tell me the last thing you remember."

The woman's voice was kind but insistent.

He remembered lights.

"Lights," he said, uncertainly.

"Good," she encouraged. "What else?"

He frowned. Images tumbled together on top of each other, confused and unclear. Voices he couldn't quite make out. He tried to pick the images apart, to separate one from the others. Nothing was clear. He wanted to give them something they could use. He concentrated harder. A headache began growing and throbbing insistently behind his eyes.

"I think there was…"

A pair of familiar, cat-like hazel eyes swam in and out of focus, and he latched onto them like a lifeline. He couldn't make out the rest of the face. It felt important. Was this what they wanted him to remember? He reached further into his mind, chasing after the memory, searching deeper for it. It was so close. He remembered someone calling his name, but he couldn't hear it. He could feel a sense of importance, _earnestness_ surrounding it, brushing up against him in the haze of emptiness he lived in. He turned toward it and concentrated. The hazel eyes met his. A mouth he almost recognized formed words he could almost hear. _De—_

Without warning, the headache exploded in a surge of pain that ripped into his mind, tearing the almost-memory to shreds. He fought it. He struggled to hold on to it.

_"Saaaaam!"_

They were pulling his hands back, away from the electrodes he'd unknowingly dislodged, holding his hands down against the armrests of the chair. Someone was pressing an alcohol swab to his arm, followed by the sharp pinch of a needle and the burn of an injection.

He thrashed against them. "No! _Sam!"_

"Mr. Bonham. John. Sir!"

She was holding his hands with gentle strength, meeting his eyes as she waited for him to come back to their surroundings, out of the hypnosis-induced stupor.

Her eyes weren't black. Why had he expected them to be black?

Recognition filtered back to him slowly. Becky. His nurse. The examination room. His doctors. The facility.

She watched the calm overtaking his panic, the effects of the drug stealing over him and easing the surge of adrenaline. "Okay, John?" she said, loosening her grip on his hands.

He took a deep breath and mumbled an apology. "That's not my name," he told her, not sure how he knew.

She smiled kindly. They'd danced to this tune many times before. "I know, hon," she said. "Do you remember your name?"

He chewed his lip for a moment, then shook his head.

She patted his arm reassuringly and ripped open a packet containing a wipe to dissolve the sticky adhesive that the electrodes had left on his forehead and temples. He leaned his head back, drained, against the padded examination chair as she methodically scrubbed the adhesive off his skin. She ran a hand through his hair affectionately when she was finished.

"I'm sorry this is so unpleasant sometimes," she said lightly. "You're doing great."

He looked up at her. "Who's Sam?" he asked unexpectedly.

She glanced back at the two men at the conference table behind her, and they exchanged a look. She turned back to John. "We, uh," she said uncertainly, "we're hoping you can tell us."

He blinked, frowning slightly.

"He's m—Ah!" He clutched his head, doubling over and crying out in agony.

"John?" She put a hand on his shoulder and glared at the men at the table. "Is it really necessary to keep putting him through this? He obviously doesn't remember."

"It is necessary." The tall, authoritatively dressed African American man stood up and collected the files he had spread out on the table in front of him. "And he will." He nodded to them briskly before turning to the second man in the room. "Dr. Novak, please note for the record – no change."

The blue-eyed physician furrowed his brow and cocked his head slightly but made no comment. He proceeded to write on John's chart as he stood to go as well.

"Dr. Novak?" she ventured.

He stopped and looked at her intently. "Yes, Becky? There's something else?"

Becky was rubbing her hand in slow circles over John's back. The man's breath was still ragged and uneven.

"He just… Are you sure these sessions are _helping?"_

"Why do you ask?"

"The migraines. If that's what they are. I've never seen anything like them. They seem to be triggered by something in his memory."

"That is correct."

She pressed her lips together. "It just seems to me that if that's the case, the better protocol would be to let him recover those memories naturally. If at all. Some amnesia patients—"

"Under normal circumstances, you would be correct, Miss Rosen. However, this being a matter of national security, we do not have that luxury. Mr. Bonham is aware of the risks."

"But as an inpatient, he—"

"Excuse me." He ducked his head in a curt but polite nod and sidesteps the nurse, leaving her to tend to the man on record with the FBI as Mr. John Bonham.


	2. Chapter 2

**THEN:**

Sam darted out ahead and ducked behind a late model car parked in the alley, shooting off a cover of gunfire that allowed Dean and Cas to cross the street and join him. Dean was clutching Cas's arm desperately. "Cas, man, you've got to get us out of here."

"Dean, I—I cannot—"

"Shit, Dean, your leg!" Sam half-crawled back to where he and Cas where kneeling. Blood was already pooling on the ground beneath Dean where he'd been hit by a stray bullet.

Dean ignored him. He pulled Cas down closer. "You _can't_ let them take him. You know what they want him for. Promise me."

"Dean—"

"I'm giving you _one job,_ damn it! Cas, whatever it takes. Please. Do_ something!"_

"Cas," Sam said, cutting him off as panic edged into his voice, "Dean needs a hospital. He needs a hospital NOW or he's gonna bleed to death."

Cas looked from one brother to the other. "Dean's right, Sam. We cannot risk allowing you your location to be revealed to Lucifer."

Sam looked stricken. "No!"

Cas put a hand on Dean's head. "This is a poor solution at best, and I'm sorry," he said. He held Dean's gaze for a moment, and he watched as Dean's green eyes filled with awareness, pain and concern dimmed into unconsciousness. "Forgive me," he whispered.

"Cas!" Sam shouted. "Oh my god, Dean…"

Cas turned to Sam. "He'll be all right. They will summon help. We must go."

Sam shoved back against the angel's chest. "I'm not leaving him!"

Cas seized Sam by the upper arm. _"We have to go."_ He reached up and pressed two fingers to Sam's forehead.

* * *

**NOW:**

Special Agent Hoffman cracked his neck outside the door of the director's office, a habit he'd picked up from years of desk work. He paused to draw himself up with the proper air of composure, and then rapped loudly before entering.

"Agent," the director acknowledged, extending his hand to the tall African American by way of greeting. "I was just about to call you."

"Thank you again for seeing me," he said, shifting the manila folder to his left hand and clasping the older gentleman's in his own. "It's a unique situation, and I'm sure that having the FBI involved in one of your drug trials presents its own unique set of challenges."

Hoffman saw the director's slightly forced expression soften a bit, as if having his concerns addressed right out of the gate reassured him that he wasn't going to have to fight his way through this conversation. "Thank you for that, yes," he said. "I have an ethics board to answer to, you understand, and the funding we—"

"I assure you, all of the appropriate measures have been taken. There won't be any unnecessary inquiries."

"Well, I appreciate that, but at the same time he's still a human being under the care of my facility." The man smiled, a bit wryly. "The question of informed consent with this group has been a point of contention from the beginning, given their varying states of amnesia. Your man does have the same bill of rights as anyone else, and without any known relatives to provide consent on his behalf, I admit I'm extremely… uncomfortable with his inclusion in the trials."

"I understand that you feel that way. However, your… comfort with the situation is not my topmost concern."

"I think you should be aware of the fact that I do have the authority to halt the trials if I'm uncomfortable with the way they're progressing."

Agent Hoffman pressed his lips together in a parody of a smile and laid the file he was holding down on the director's desk between them without opening it.

"This folder contains what information the Bureau has been able to collate on a man known as 'Dean Winchester.' We're convinced that your John Bonham _is_ Dean Winchester, and we're further convinced that his missing memories contain information about a weapon. A weapon that is a threat to national – possibly even global – security."

" I'm sorry. _Global_ security? You _do_ know that he was transferred to us from Boston General following recovery from a gunshot wound, do you not? We believe his memory loss is trauma induced."

Hoffman tapped the folder. "Yes, we're aware of the injury. It's believed to be immaterial to his condition."

"That's highly unlikely." The director reached for the file on his desk. "Do you mind if I…?"

Hoffman caught his wrist in mid reach. The director drew back and straightened his shoulders, offended.

"My apologies," the agent offered, with a professional, conciliatory smile, as if the act of aggression had not taken place. He scooped the innocent-looking file up into one arm protectively. "It's not my place to share what we know at this point. I'm afraid the levels of clearance on some of these documents are so high, not even God himself is authorized to view them."

"Well then forgive me for asking, but how is it that _you_ have access?" The director crossed his arms coldly across his chest, no longer interested in feigning professionalism with the government agent intruding on his territory.

"Fortunately, I answer to a different authority," Hoffman answered. "Thank you again for your time – and your _cooperation_, Director. I'll be in touch." He smiled.

As soon as his back was turned, he blinked, eyes flashing demon-black, and his smile widened.


End file.
